The Hanging Valley (7 page)

“Did it seem to you as if they were all in on some kind of conspiracy?”

“I’m not a paranoid, if that’s what you’re getting at, Chief Inspector.”

“But you were upset. Sometimes our senses can over-react.”

“Believe what you wish. I simply thought you ought to know.

And in answer to your question, no, I didn’t sense any gigantic conspiracy, just that someone at the table knew something.”

“But you said you thought a glance was exchanged.”

“That’s what it felt like.”

“So more than one person knew?”

“I suppose so. I can’t say how many or how I received the impression. It just happened.”

Banks took his notebook out again and wrote down the names. “I don’t want to get anybody into trouble,” Fellowes said. “I could be wrong. It could have happened just as you said, an over-reaction.”

“Let
us
worry about that, Mr Fellowes. We don’t usually ask people to stand up in a court of law and swear to their feelings. Is that all you can tell me?”

“Yes. Will I be able to go home now? There’ll be trouble at work if I’m not back tomorrow.”

“Better give me your address and phone number in case we need to talk to you again,” Banks said.

Banks made a note of Fellowes’s address and left, thinking what a celebrity the man would be at work for a while. He went out of the open door without seeing Katie Greenock and breathed in the fresh air by the beck. A young man dangled his legs over the bank, eating a sandwich from grease-proof paper and reading a thick paperback; the old men still huddled around the eastern end of the stone bridge; and there were three cars parked outside the White Rose. Banks looked at his watch: twenty past one. With a bit of luck the same crowd as yesterday would be there. He read over the names Fellowes had given him again and decided to make a start.

III

First things first, Banks thought, and headed for the bar. He ordered Cumberland sausage, beans and chips, then paid, took his numbered receipt, and waited while Freddie Metcalfe poured him a pint of Pedigree.

“Is tha getting anywhere?” Metcalfe asked, his biceps bulging as he pulled down on the pump.

“Early days yet,” Banks answered.

“Aye, an’ it got to late days an’ all last time, and still tha didn’t find owt.”

“That’s how it goes sometimes. I wasn’t here then.”

“Thinks tha’s better than old Gristhorpe, does tha, eh?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“From down sahth, aren’t tha?”

“Yes. London.”

“London.” Metcalfe placed the foaming brew on the cloth in front of Banks and scratched his hairy ear. “Bin there once. Full o’ foreigners, London. All them A-rabs.”

“It’s a busy place,” Banks said, picking up his beer.

“Don’t get many o’ them arahnd ’ere. Foreigners, that is. That why tha came up ’ere, to get shut on t’A-rabs, eh? Tha’ll find plenty
o’ Pakis in Bradford, like, but I don’t reckon as I’ve ever seed a darkie in Swainshead. Saw one in Eastvale, once.”

Banks, growing quickly tired of Metcalfe’s racist inanities, made to turn away, but the landlord grabbed his elbow.

“Don’t tha want to ask me any questions then, lad?” he said, his eyes glittering.

Holding back his temper, Banks lit a cigarette and propped himself up against the bar. He had noticed that the three men he recognized from the previous day were only into the upper thirds of their pints, so he had enough time to banter with Metcalfe. He might just pick up some interesting titbit.

“What do you want me to ask you?” he opened.

“Nay, tha’s t’bobby. Tha should know.”

“Do you get many walkers in here?”

“Aye. We don’t fuss ’em abaht rucksacks and boo-its and what-not like that stuck-up pillock on t’main road.”

“But I understand this is the ‘select’ part of town?”

“Aye.” Metcalfe laughed. “Tha could say that. It’s t’oldest, anyroads. And t’Colliers drink ’ere, as did their father before them. Select, if tha likes, but dahn to earth, not stuck up.” He shook his head slowly. “A right lad, were Walter Collier.” Then he leaned forward and whispered, “Not like ’is sons, if tha knows what I mean. Wouldn’t know a cratch from a gripe, neither on ’em. And they was brought up by a farmer, too.”

Banks, who didn’t know a cratch from a gripe either, asked why. “Eddication,” Metcalfe said, intoning the word as if it were responsible for most of the world’s ills. “Fancy bloody Oxford eddication. Wanted ’em to ’ave a better chance than ’ee’d ’ad, did old Walter. Farming don’t pay much, tha knows, an’ Walter were sharp enough to get out ’imself.” Metcalfe turned up his nose. “Well, tha can see what eddication does.”

“What are they like, Stephen and Nicholas?” Banks asked. Metcalfe sniffed and lowered his voice. He was clearly enjoying his role as dispenser of local opinion. “Right bloody useless pair, if y’ask me. At least yon Nicholas is. Mr Stephen’s not so bad. Teks after old Walter, ’ee does. Bit of a ladies’ man. Not that t’other’s queer, or owt.” Metcalfe laughed. “There were a bit o’ trouble wi’ a
servant lass a few years back, when ’ee were still a young lad, living at ’ome, like. Got ’er up t’spout, Master Nicholas did. Old Walter ’ad to see ’er right, o’ course, and I’ve no doubt ’ee gave t’lad a right good thrashing. But it’s Mr Stephen that’s t’ladies’ man. One after t’other.”

“What’s the difference in their ages?”

“Nobbut a couple o’ years. Stephen’s t’eldest.”

“What happened to the farm land?”

“Old Walter sold some on it,” Metcalfe said, “and leased t’rest.

T’Colliers are still t’biggest landowners in t’dale, mind thee. John Fletcher over there bought a goodly chunk on it.” He wagged his chin in the direction of the table. The drinkers were now into the last thirds of their drinks, and Banks decided it would be a good time to approach them.

“Tha still an’t asked me no real questions,” Metcalfe protested. “Later,” Banks said, turning. “I’d like to talk to these gentlemen here before they leave.” Of the gentlemen in question, he recognized Nicholas Collier and Sam Greenock from the previous day; therefore, the third had to be John Fletcher.

“Wait on a minute,” Metcalfe said. “Dun’t tha want tha sausage and chips?”

And as if on cue, a freckled little girl in a red dress, her hair in pigtails, appeared from the kitchens and called out, “Number seventy-five! Sausage, beans and chips.”

Banks gave her his receipt and took the plate, then he helped himself to condiments from the bar.

When he walked over to the table, the three men shifted around, scraping their chair-legs on the flagged floor, and made room for him.

“Do you mind if I eat at your table?” he asked.

“Not at all. Freddie been giving you a rough time, Inspector?”

Nicholas Collier asked. His smile showed his prominent teeth to great disadvantage; they were discoloured with nicotine and crooked as a badly built dry-stone wall. His speech, Banks noticed, bore traces of the local accent under its assumed veneer of public-school English.

“No,” he said, returning the smile. “Just entertaining me. Quite a fellow.”

“You can say that again. He’s been behind that bar as long as I can remember.” Nicholas leaned forward and lowered his voice, “Between you and me, I don’t think he quite approves of Stephen and myself. Anyway, have you met John, here?”

The squat man with the five-o’clock shadow was indeed John Fletcher, gentleman farmer. Stephen Collier, his brother said, was away dealing with some factory business.

“Is this just a social visit or do you have some questions for us?” Sam asked.

“Just one, really,” Banks said, spearing a mouthful of sausage. “Have you any idea who it was we found up there?”

After a short silence, Nicholas said, “We get quite a lot of visitors in the area, Inspector. Especially when we’re blessed with such a fine start to the year. There’s nobody local missing, as far as I know, so it must be a stranger. Can’t you check?”

“Yes,” Banks said. “Of course we can. We can go through every name in every hotel and guest-house registration book and make sure everyone’s accounted for. But, like you, I’m sure, we’re all for anything that saves extra effort.”

Collier laughed. “Naturally. But no, I can’t think of anyone it might be.”

“Your victim hadn’t necessarily come through Swainshead, you know,” Sam pointed out. “He could have been heading south from Swaledale or beyond. Even from the Lake District. He could have set off from Helmthorpe, too, or any number of other villages in the dale. Most of them have at least one or two bed-and-breakfast places these days.”

“I know,” Banks said. “Believe me, we’re checking.” He turned to Fletcher. “I hear that you own quite a bit of land?”

“Yes,” Fletcher said, his dark eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Walter sold it me when he gave up farming and went into the food business.” He glanced at Nicholas, who nodded. “Neither Nick here, nor his brother Stephen wanted to take over—in fact Walter hadn’t wanted them to, he’d been preparing to sell for quite a while—so I thought I’d give it a go.”

“How is it working out?”

“Well enough. I don’t know if you understand much about Dales
farming, Mr Banks, but it’s a hard life. Old Walter himself had had enough, and he was one of those men—rare around these parts— with enough vision to get out and put what he’d got to better use. I’d never blame a farmer for wanting a different life for his sons. I’ve got no family myself,” he said, and a hard look came into his eyes. “I’m not complaining, though. I make a living—the EEC and the National Parks Commission notwithstanding.”

Banks turned to Nicholas. “What do you do?”

“I teach English at Braughtmore, just up the road here. It’s only a small public school, of course, but it’s a start.”

“But you don’t actually live there?”

“No. Hardly necessary, really. The house is so close. The pupils live in. They have to do; it’s so damn far from civilization. And we have housemasters. Some of the teachers live in the grounds, but a couple of others have chosen to settle here in the village. The school’s only five miles north, quite isolated. It’s a good school, though I say so myself. Do you have any children, Inspector?”

“Yes. A boy and a girl.”

“What school do they attend?”

“Eastvale Comprehensive.”

“Hmm.” The corner of Collier’s lip twitched, giving just a fleeting hint of a sneer.

Banks shifted uneasily in his chair. “Your brother runs the family business, I gather.”

“Yes. Managing Director of Collier Food Enterprises. It’s over the Lancashire border, about ten miles west, just off the main road. The arrangement suits us both perfectly. Stephen never had a great deal of academic ambition, despite the excellent education he received, but he’s bright and he’s put his mind to good enough use—making money. It was one of father’s wisest moves, buying up that old mill and setting up the food-processing operation. And as for me, I’m happy with my books and a few pliant young minds to work on.” Again he bared his teeth in a smile.

They had all finished their drinks and Banks was wondering how to edge them gently towards the murder again, when Fletcher stood up and excused himself. Immediately, the others looked at
their watches and decided they ought to leave and take care of various tasks.

“There’s nothing else, is there, Inspector?” Nicholas asked. “No,” Banks said. “Not yet.”

Freddie Metcalfe ambled over to the table to pick up the plate and the empty glasses as Banks was stubbing out his cigarette.

“Find owt aht yet?” he asked.

“No,” Banks said, standing up. “Nothing.”

“Early days, eh?”

And the deep, chortling laughter followed Banks out into the street.

IV

Back at Eastvale station things were quiet. Grabbing a cup of coffee from the filter-machine on the way, Banks walked upstairs to his office, a plain room furnished with nothing but filing cabinets, metal desk and a calendar of local scenes. The illustration for May showed the River Wharfe as it flowed among the limestone boulders of Langstrothdale. More recently, Banks had added, next to it, one more decoration: a broken pipe, which he had just rediscovered at the back of his drawer. It represented a vain attempt to project a rural image and wean himself from cigarettes at the same time, but he had cursed it constantly and finally thrown it at that very same wall in frustration over the Steadman case almost a year ago. It hung there like a piece of conceptual art to remind him of the folly of trying to be what one is not.

There were quite a few cars parked in the cobbled market square outside, and visitors walked in and out of the small Norman church and the shops that seemed to be built into its frontage. The gold hands of the clock stood at three-thirty against its blue face. Banks looked down on the scene, as he often did, smoking a cigarette and sipping his coffee. The police station itself was a Tudor-fronted building on narrow Market Street across from the Queen’s Arms, which curved around the corner so that one of its entrances stood on the side of the square opposite the church. Looking to his
right, Banks could see along the street, with its coffee-houses, boutiques and specialty shops, and out front was the busy square itself, with the NatWest bank, the El Toro coffee-bar and Joplin’s newsagent’s at the opposite side.

A knock at the door interrupted him. Sergeant Hatchley came in looking very pleased with himself. When he was excited about something he moved much faster than usual and seemed unable to stand still. Banks had come to recognize the signs.

“I’ve tracked it down, sir,” Hatchley said. “That bit of paper he had in his pocket.”

The two of them sat down and Banks told the sergeant to carry on.

“Like you said, I tried the London office. They said they’d check and get back to me. Anyway, they found out that that particular branch is in Canada.”

“So our man’s a Canadian?”

“Looks that way, sir. Unless, like I said before, he’d just been on holiday there. Anyway, at least we know there’s a close connection.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Once he’d discovered the outlet was in Canada, the bloke from Wendy’s became very helpful.”

Such helpfulness was a common enough occurrence, Banks knew from experience. He’d even invented a term for it: the Amateur Sleuth Syndrome.